


don't call him butcher (he smells like flowers)

by REVVIII



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: ......or is it??, And is also very grumpy, Bathtubs, But it's just for warmth!, Cuddling & Snuggling, First Kiss, Fluff and Smut, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, Love Confessions, M/M, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:08:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22503043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/REVVIII/pseuds/REVVIII
Summary: It was cold. And there was only one bed. What could possibly happen?Also with a gratuitous bath scene thrown in because why not
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 23
Kudos: 948





	don't call him butcher (he smells like flowers)

Jaskier’s eyes widened as he pushed open the door. “There’s um. Only one bed.”

“So there is,” Geralt said blandly, brushing past him into the room and tossing his belongings on the floor—though Jaskier noted that he took special care to lay the lute case down gently. Good thing too, or Jaskier would have tried to pummel him, and that would have ended terribly for both of them.

Jaskier swallowed. “Did you, ah, ask them for two?”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “Of course I did, bard, but in case you didn’t notice, it’s rather crowded tonight. They only had this one room. Now are you going to stand in the doorway all night, or are you coming in?”

“Sheesh, Geralt, you don’t have to be so pissy,” Jaskier grumbled, but he stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He approached the bed cautiously. “It’s um. A very _small_ bed.”

“Surely you can fit in it,” Geralt said.

“Well, yes, but…but what about you?”

“I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“You—what! No! No, Geralt, absolutely not, it’s terrible for your back!”

Geralt was already undoing his bedroll. “It’s not any worse than sleeping outside. Now get some rest; we have a long day’s travel tomorrow.”

Jaskier folded his arms, took a deep breath to steady his nerves, looked at Geralt. “I refuse to let you sleep on the floor.”

Geralt stopped, narrowed his eyes in mild bewilderment. “Well, if _you_ want to sleep on the floor instead—”

“That’s not what I meant,” Jaskier said, and he felt the heat of a flush creeping up his cheeks.

Geralt raised an eyebrow, waiting.

Jaskier cleared his throat and looked very determinedly at a point past Geralt’s shoulder. “I meant,” he said, his voice rather high, “that we could share. I’m sure we both can fit.”

The Witcher looked doubtful. “It’s tiny.”

“Oh, _now_ you admit it,” Jaskier huffed. His face was thoroughly red now; he could feel it. He probably looked like a tomato. “Regardless, we’re both adults and I’m sure we can handle a little bit of intrusion into our personal space for a few hours. Especially if it’s for the sake of our spinal comfort. Yes?”

Geralt watched him for a few moments, then shrugged and headed over.

“Ah-ah, not before you’ve bathed!” Jaskier yelped, stepping between the Witcher and the bed with far more courage than he thought he had. Or maybe it was stupidity, based on the glowering look Geralt gave him.

“Jaskier, if you’re going to demand that I sleep with you and then force me to bathe before you let me in the bed—”

“What have you got against bathing, anyway? Huh?” Jaskier asked, hands on his hips, _resolutely_ ignoring the fact that Geralt just said he’d _demanded the Witcher sleep with him_. Gods-fucking-damnit, Geralt. “Is it really that bad to be clean, to be free of guts and blood and dirt and gods know what else, for just a few hours of your life? You know, I think you see bathing as such a lowly human thing to do, like what else are we good for other than scrubbing clean every once in a while, but there are actually some rather significant benefits to being clean, not in the least for the sake of people around you—”

“Fine, fine!” Geralt snapped. “I’ll take a damn bath.”

He did, actually, end up bathing. Hot water was brought to fill the tub, and then Geralt, having also laid his armor aside upon entering the room, promptly removed his shirt and dropped his trousers.

Jaskier did not squeak. Absolutely not.

“Not even that dirty,” Geralt grumbled as he stepped into the water; and it was true, Jaskier admitted, the worst had been a bit of sweat and dust these past two days. Still, the man smelled a bit like Roach, and Jaskier was not keen on the idea of sleeping with the smell of horse in his nostrils.

“You don’t _just_ have to bathe when you’re covered in blood, you know,” Jaskier said, rummaging around in his pack and doing his best not to think about the lovely, round, pert arse attached to the man’s backside that had just been on full, glorious display. “It’s not like uh, oh, I don’t know, like getting sick or something, where you only have to take medicine when it actually happens.”

“I wouldn’t know, I don’t get sick,” Geralt said.

Jaskier heaved a very long-suffering sigh. “Can’t just play along, can you? Fine, fine—it’s not like getting _injured_ , where you only have to worry about stitching things up when it happens. Bathing can be…it’s nice, Geralt, and I’m of the firm belief that you should learn to appreciate it more.” He pulled out a small wrapped package.

“What are you doing?” Geralt growled.

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “I’m getting soap, Geralt, and it’s very happy to meet you. It would be lovely if you could get acquainted with it too.”

Geralt sniffed the air, wrinkled his nose. “Smells like flowers.” He glared at Jaskier. “Is this _your_ soap?”

“Well, who else would it belong to?” Jaskier demanded.

Geralt grunted.

Jaskier unwrapped the soap, tossed the thin cloth to the side. “I take it you’re smart enough to figure out how to use it—”

“ _You_ need a bath,” Geralt interrupted.

“Since it’s really not that hard—what?”

“You need a bath,” Geralt said again, more slowly. “You’re just as sweaty as I am.”

Jaskier blinked. “I, uh, well, I’ll happily take a bath, yes, in fact I was planning on calling up more hot water after you were done—”

“Costs too much,” Geralt grunted. “Second baths are always extra.” He jerked his head at the water. “Get in before it gets cold.”

Jaskier was immediately, brilliantly, bright red again, and he laughed nervously as his heart suddenly began beating uncomfortably fast. “Ah, I don’t think that’s quite necessary, Geralt, I’ve got enough coin and I’m perfectly fine with waiting until you’re done—”

“We’re about to share a bed, this is no big deal,” Geralt said.

“This is _too_ a very big deal!” Jaskier yelped. “We’re not _naked_ when we’re sleeping, this is very much extremely different!”

Geralt rolled his eyes “Just get _in_ , bard,” he said, and the growl in his voice sent a shiver up Jaskier’s spine that wasn’t exactly fear.

Well. There wasn’t really anything he could do if a _Witcher_ was insisting, was there? Face somehow feeling even hotter than it had before, Jaskier kicked off his shoes, removed his shirt and trousers, approached the bathtub.

“Do you have to stare?” he mumbled as he stepped in gingerly.

Geralt snorted. “What’s there to be self-conscious about? Skin is skin.”

Jaskier wrinkled his nose. That was false, skin was _not_ just skin, especially when he was just a little bit in love with someone and was now naked in front of him, and especially when that someone was sculpted like a god and he was…well, not _unattractive_ , but rather ordinary. But for all his complaining, he was actually quite grateful to sit down in the hot water; the air was chilly, even chillier without his clothes on, and he let himself slide down the side of the tub until the water lapped up at his neck. Geralt was still watching him, golden eyes intense and unreadable, and Jaskier swallowed nervously.

Of _course_ they’d had to sit facing each other.

He was very close to Geralt right now. And they were both naked. And as if he hadn’t been aware enough before, Jaskier was now _extremely_ aware of the no-good very inconvenient terribly huge crush he had on the man sitting in the tub with him.

He swallowed nervously again. This would be so much easier if Jaskier wasn’t in love. Or, better yet, if Geralt loved him back, which was something he’d accepted was never ever in a million years going to happen.

“Soap, Jaskier,” Geralt sighed, seemingly oblivious to his inner turmoil.

“Soap—oh right, yes, soap.” Jaskier flushed, began scrubbing with slightly shaking hands, and when he was done, he passed the bar to the other man, not daring to look at him. He heard the water splashing gently with Geralt’s movements, risked a glance up, felt his gaze catch on the sharp line of the man’s jaw, the curve of his lips, the arch of his brows. It all seemed to be set in a permanent frown, except for when it wasn’t, when he was talking to Roach or every time he saw Yennefer, and Jaskier knew that he was actually quite soft when he wanted to be.

Geralt gave him a look as he soaped up his chest. “Going to complain about my hair being tangled too?”

“What? Oh, no,” Jaskier said quickly. “I mean, yes, it is actually quite tangled, I don’t know how you stand it. You should invest in a comb.” He shrugged. “Or if you’re stingy on coin, you’ve always got me, I could—” He broke off, eyes widening. “I mean—”

Geralt rolled his eyes, shifted in the tub so his back was to Jaskier. “Get on with it then, if it bothers you that much.”

Jaskier blinked. “What?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said tiredly, “you’re a little a slow on the uptake sometimes, try to keep up. I said, get on with untangling my hair if it bothers you that much.”

Jaskier flushed. “I heard you, Geralt, I just…didn’t know if you meant it,” he mumbled. “You never let anyone into your space.”

“Well, I’m letting you in _now_ , aren’t I?” Geralt grumbled.

That was true. Jaskier swallowed audibly. He reached out with trembling fingers, hesitated, took a deep breath and summoned all the courage he had, and touched Geralt’s hair.

The Witcher didn’t move.

Another deep breath, trying to quell the pounding of his heart. He began working his way through the knotted strands, as gently as he could to avoid pulling on them. At first he was careful not to touch Geralt’s skin, but then, without having thought about what he was doing, he found himself running his fingers through the hair by his scalp, searching for knots and easing them out the ends until his fingers brushed against Geralt’s shoulders. And the Witcher almost seemed to lean into his touch, even though Jaskier knew he would never admit it, and when Jaskier shifted around to get at the knots in the silver strands hanging over his ears he saw that the Witcher’s eyes were peacefully closed.

Jaskier’s heart beat a little bit faster then. The only time Geralt closed his eyes was when he was blinking or sleeping, and even then Jaskier knew he woke with every little sound, every little movement. To have him sit here with his back to Jaskier and have his eyes closed while Jaskier tugged on his hair was…unexpected. And a bit nice, actually. And a whole lot strange.

The Butcher of Blaviken. The White Wolf. The renowned Geralt of Rivia, sitting here naked in a tub, eyes closed and motionless, while a bard pulled knots out of his hair.

Jaskier almost had to laugh.

“You write songs about me, Jaskier,” Geralt murmured, breaking the silence.

“Um.” Jaskier paused. “Yes, I do. Thank you for noticing.”

He could almost hear Geralt roll his eyes, even though they were still closed. “You write songs saying _good things_ about me.”

“Oh. Yes, yes that’s also true.”

“Why?”

Jaskier blinked. “Well, I got punched in the stomach when I called you the Butcher of Blaviken, so I figured you probably didn’t like the reputation you had.”

“And you took it upon yourself to change it?”

“Obviously.” Jaskier turned back to the Witcher’s hair. “You’re not a bad person, Geralt. You’re not even that scary. Honestly,” he said, when Geralt growled low in his throat. “You kill monsters, you kill bad people, and that’s about it. You don’t _even_ kill bad people that much, actually. So you can sit there with your big sword and manly muscles and pout all you want, but I know you wouldn’t hurt me.” He paused. “Or anyone else unless you had to, I suppose.”

Geralt was silent for a few moments. “You don’t get anything out of it,” he said.

Jaskier rolled his eyes, tugged a bit harder at a particularly stubborn knot. “I get _coin_ , you big oaf.”

“You can get coin singing about whoring around.”

“Well, yes, I suppose you’re right about that,” Jaskier mused. “But then of course there’s the whole question of how famous my songs will get me. Love stories last _ages_ if they’re spectacular, I suppose, but I don’t think anyone would consider my affairs to be in the realm of spectacular love or whatever. _Your_ stories, on the other hand, are timeless. Epic. Tales that will long outlive me.”

“So you’re in it for fame,” Geralt said.

Jaskier shrugged, moved around to knots in the hair on the other side of Geralt’s head. “Partly. But the fame is just an added bonus of spending time with the legend himself, isn’t it? And you’ve…well, you’ve become a friend, Geralt. That’s the most important part. You’re my friend, and I care about how the world sees you.”

Geralt was silent for a long moment. “I carry her brooch,” he said finally.

Jaskier’s fingers stilled in the Witcher’s hair. “The brooch on your sword, you mean,” he said.

“Yes. It belonged to the woman I killed in the events that led to me being called the Butcher. Every time I see it, it reminds me not to get involved with humans. That even if I intended to do good, I can never know what might follow.”

“But you _do_ get involved,” Jaskier said, and he felt Geralt stiffen under his fingers but he couldn’t make himself stop. “You got involved when you went to court with me. You got involved with the dragon—well, technically not everyone there was human, but you get my point. And in the end, it was _good_ that you got involved, right? You thought the situation with the child surprise was a bit shit at first, but you saved her and protected her when she needed it, and you brought her to Yennefer. And I suppose the dragon was already dead by the time we all got there, but you protected its egg. So see what I mean? You’re not bad, Geralt. You’re very good at killing things and you’re a tad socially awkward, but you’re a good person, and that’s what I want people to see about you.”

Geralt didn’t reply. But he didn’t move, either, so Jaskier continued, fingers light and careful in the Witcher’s hair, until the water began to cool around them.

He withdrew his hands, cleared his throat. “Um. All done.”

Geralt grunted. Done bathing by now, he stood and stepped out of the tub, and Jaskier bit the inside of his cheek to stifle a sigh because _gods_ , that man was beautiful.

And hung as a horse.

Jaskier exhaled sharply and forced himself to look away.

The Witcher picked up the towels that the maid had brought up with the hot water, holding one out to Jaskier without acknowledgment of the fact that Jaskier had just been staring at his very naked body; something that would have been impossible for him to miss. Jaskier muttered his thanks, stood to get out of the tub—and promptly slipped.

Jaskier yelped. He flailed wildly, fully expecting to land with the most ungainly splash back in the tub and probably hit his head on the rim, but then Geralt was there, one hand on his arm, the other one firm on his waist, holding him steady.

For a moment, Jaskier forgot how to breathe.

Geralt sighed. “Be careful, bard,” he said, releasing him when he’d regained his footing. Jaskier’s skin was cold where his hands had been.

Actually, Jaskier’s skin was cold _everywhere_. It was fucking freezing. He stepped out of the tub without slipping this time, picked up the towel from where Geralt had dropped it onto the ground in his haste to prevent the bard from cracking open his skull, and dried off the worst of the wet before donning a clean set of clothes for bed.

He should not have been affected like this. It wasn’t like Geralt had never touched him, and it wasn’t like he had never touched Geralt. He touched the Witcher all the time, in fact; a pat on his shoulder as he sat brooding in the corner, a nudge on the thigh as he said something particularly cheeky while walking beside Geralt on Roach, a tight-fingered grasp on his arm when there was something terrifying out in the woods or in the swamp. But touching seemed very different when both parties were naked.

He settled into bed, making sure to leave enough room for Geralt, and a few moments later the room darkened as Geralt put out the lamp and Jaskier felt the bed dip beside him as the other man settled in under the covers.

He was decidedly not wearing a shirt. But at least he was wearing pants now, and Jaskier was fairly confident that he could deal with this.

“Goodnight, Geralt,” Jaskier said quietly.

Geralt grunted. Jaskier knew him well enough to know that he was returning the sentiment.

But Jaskier couldn’t sleep. He was clean and dry with a full stomach and that should’ve been enough for him to have drifted off easily, but sleep didn’t seem to want to come to him. He was still freezing, for one, despite the fact that he’d curled up and pulled the covers up over his ears. And he kept thinking about the Witcher, for two; he kept seeing the rippling muscles under scarred skin, imagining the heat of him, the piercing golden gaze that he still sometimes had trouble deciphering.

He wondered if Geralt would let him untangle his hair again sometime. He wondered if Geralt would be okay with his hands roaming a little lower, down to his shoulders, his back, wrap around to his chest. He wondered if Geralt would allow him to touch him if he asked without pretense.

He shook his head sharply. No, Geralt wouldn’t allow that; he barely even let Jaskier touch _Roach_. He’d be a fool to hope for it.

Beside him, Geralt exhaled a little more loudly than before.

“Geralt?” Jaskier whispered. “Are you awake?”

There was a moment of silence. “Trying not to be,” Geralt said finally, and his voice was rough.

“Oh,” Jaskier whispered. “Sorry.”

There was no response this time. Jaskier bit his lip, curled up a little tighter, tried not to shiver. Gods, why was it so damn _cold_ in this room? He’d have to have a word with the innkeeper the next morning. They weren’t staying another night, but he was sure the next travelers to use this room would appreciate it being a little warmer.

And why wasn’t _Geralt_ cold? Oh, right, because he was a Witcher. They probably had some special ability to just not be cold ever, Jaskier thought, because he didn’t think he’d seen the man shiver even once. He wondered if that was an ability that could be learned, because if so, he would most certainly benefit from it. And then he wondered what it might be like for the Witcher to feel the same way about him as he felt about the Witcher, and then he realized very quickly that that was very dangerous territory to tread on because thinking about his unrequited love for the man and the inevitable years and years of pining to follow was very painful, actually, and he really did not like pain.

“Jaskier,” Geralt huffed, and Jaskier started.

“Am I breathing too loud? Sorry,” he said sheepishly.

Geralt huffed again. “I can practically hear you moping.”

“I’m not moping,” Jaskier lied.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said again, drawing his name out like he was a petulant child and Geralt was his very tired, long-suffering guardian.

Jaskier bit his lip. “I’m…I’m just cold, that’s all.”

There was a long moment of silence, and then Geralt sighed. “Fine. Come here.”

Jaskier blinked, tilted his head to look at the Witcher. “What?”

Geralt rolled his eyes; Jaskier could see the gleam of them in the darkness. “Come _here_ , bard.” And he held open his arms, and that was simply an invitation too lovely to resist.

Jaskier shifted over, a little bit eagerly, a little bit nervously, until Geralt’s arms wrapped around his shoulders and he was tucked up against the Witcher. His skin was warm, the gentle rise and fall of his chest soothing the shivers that racked his body.

“You’re always cold,” Geralt muttered, his voice a low rumble.

“It’s not like I’m _trying_ to be cold all the time,” Jaskier protested. “Honestly, Geralt, do you really think it’s comfortable? The being cold part, I mean, not the part where I’m wrapped in the arms of a very warm very muscular very attractive man. The second part is…very nice, actually. And definitely seems to be very effective in stopping me from feeling as cold.”

Geralt grunted. “Are you always this irritating when you sleep with people too?”

“Probably. But if I’d known you were open to the idea of cuddling, I’d have asked so much sooner,” Jaskier said, completely not thinking about what he was saying.

“We’re not,” Geralt began, then broke off, gritting his teeth.

“Not what?”

“We’re not _cuddling_ ,” Geralt bit out.

“What do you call this then?” Jaskier demanded, indignant and a little bit outraged, but he didn’t think he came off as very intimidating because they absolutely _were_ cuddling but he wasn’t even the one doing the spooning and he was still shivering a little bit.

Geralt sounded very tired. “I’m…keeping you warm,” he said.

Jaskier tsked. “Lame. We’re cuddling.”

Geralt growled. But he didn’t shove Jaskier away from him, which was both a bit surprising and very nice of him, and he didn’t argue, which was even more surprising and even nicer of him.

Jaskier felt a small smile spread itself across his face.

The night ticked on, and Geralt was warm, and Jaskier was very quickly not cold anymore. He was a pleasant _cozy_ instead, safe and protected, held rather more tightly than he’d expected to be. The Witcher, meanwhile, was sleeping on his back, one arm around Jaskier as Jaskier pressed up against him with his cheek resting on a broad shoulder. His eyes were closed now, his heartbeats slow, and Jaskier wondered distantly how those slow beats would feel against his hand.

He reached out hesitantly, placed his palm flat over Geralt’s chest.

The Witcher’s fingers twitched against Jaskier’s shoulder, but otherwise he didn’t respond.

Jaskier let out a breath. The heartbeats had felt about as he’d expected, but Geralt’s skin was softer than he’d imagined, smooth under the scars, around the smattering of hair. He wondered if Geralt’s belly was soft, too, like his—well, not _exactly_ like his, since he wasn’t ripped like Geralt was—and slid his hand down to check, and yes, he did feel a little softer here, and there was a little trail of hairs that led down to where Jaskier would not let his mind go right now.

His hand skimmed back up to Geralt’s chest then, tracing the ribs carefully as they expanded and contracted with every slow, deep breath, following his sternum up to the hollow of his throat, and he figured Geralt probably didn’t like to have his neck touched so he skipped over that, fingers coming instead to the light stubble on Geralt’s chin. He followed the sharp bone of his jaw, brushed a thumb over cheeks, came back to his lips, which were soft and warm under his hands.

Geralt’s breath ghosted out over his fingertips. “Jaskier, what are you doing?” he murmured, not opening his eyes, barely moving his lips.

Jaskier blushed, bit his lip, withdrew. “Sorry,” he whispered.

Geralt’s eyes flickered open then, bright gold in the darkness as they looked at him. “I didn’t say you had to stop,” he said quietly, and Jaskier’s heart thudded in his chest.

“Oh,” he said, eyes wide.

Geralt was still looking at him. “I mean it. You can keep going if you want,” he said again, and there was something soft in his voice now that Jaskier couldn’t quite decide if it was just because of sleepiness or not.

“You don’t…you don’t mind?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt huffed an almost-laugh and turned back to face the ceiling.

Jaskier thought perhaps that was permission. He swallowed, lifted his hand again, let it come to rest on Geralt’s chest; the other man hummed, gave Jaskier’s shoulders a light squeeze. Encouraged, Jaskier let his fingers trace light patterns, let them wander around the man’s sides, over his shoulders. He wasn’t entirely sure that this wasn’t a dream, but Geralt was delightfully warm and surprisingly soft and wanted him to keep going, so he wasn’t about to make it end before it had to.

His fingers found a scar on Geralt’s side, larger than any of the others littering his body. Geralt had told him about this one before, when he’d been stitching up a wound on his other side and Jaskier had seen him shirtless for the first time. His fingers traced it now, light and gentle over deadened nerves, and he thought he felt a little hiccup in the man’s heartbeat. He stayed there for a while, mapping out the feeling of it, before he returned to the man’s belly, lingering over more scars, marveling in the warmth of the man’s skin.

He tugged gently at Geralt’s other arm then, hands quietly insistent, until finally Geralt moved it for him, lifting it from where it had been resting at his side and laying it low across his chest instead. Jaskier traced the veins in the man’s forearms, feeling the rough catch of hair against the callouses he’d formed from hours and hours of playing his lute, followed the muscles and tendons down to the Witcher’s wrist, down to the tips of his fingers, and then Jaskier dared to lace their fingers together, thinking about how they fit together perfectly, his slim pale ones between Geralt’s scarred ones, and then he realized what he was doing and made to pull away and let Geralt sleep when the man’s hand tightened around his, holding him there, and Jaskier felt his breath hitch.

“Jaskier,” Geralt murmured, voice low in his throat. Jaskier looked up at him, breath tight, eyes wide and wondering, and Geralt was looking back down at him, something indescribably soft in the gold of his eyes, and then Jaskier leaned up and kissed him.

Geralt froze for a moment, and then something seemed to release in him and he sighed into his mouth, and Jaskier felt the powerful shift of muscles as the other man curled up around him, rolling the bard onto his back and leaning over him. Jaskier hadn’t really known what he was doing when he kissed Geralt—he certainly hadn’t been thinking—but Geralt was kissing him back passionately now, soft noises like purrs coming from his throat, and the hand not pinned under Jaskier’s shoulders was coming up to cup his cheek.

“Oh, I’m in love,” Jaskier whispered, his voice like a sigh. Geralt made that noise in his throat again which was _definitely_ a purr, and Jaskier shivered in delight. The other man was kissing him insistently and his hands were all over him and it was _lovely_ , powerful and deadly but oh so gentle. He felt cherished.

“I want you to know,” Jaskier began, and then gasped as Geralt’s lips moved down to his throat and the bit of collarbone peeking out from beneath his shirt.

“Yes?” Geralt growled, mouth hot and wet.

“I want you to know that I didn’t just kiss you on a whim,” Jaskier said.

“Hm,” Geralt said, and there were _teeth_ in that kiss, sharp and stinging and making Jaskier gasp, until he soothed the bite with the sweet rasp of his tongue.

“I mean it,” Jaskier said, trying very hard to make his brain focus so his words were coherent under Geralt’s far-too-skillful mouth. Oh, _yes_ , that was _very_ nice, very hot, please do that again because he liked that very much—

Geralt just hummed.

“I really, really like you, Geralt,” Jaskier said, not thinking about what he was saying now but he’d started speaking and he couldn’t stop, and his voice was almost a gasp as Geralt’s hands slipped under his shirt to ruck it up around his chest. “I kissed you because I’ve been wanting to for forever. I don’t want you to think I’m just doing this for fun or as something casual because it’s _not_ , you mean too much to me and I want _this_ to mean something too—”

“What?” Geralt asked, and he abruptly stopped kissing him. “What do you want this to mean, Jaskier?”

The Witcher’s face was hard, unreadable; Jaskier shrank back, a little bit afraid now—not that Geralt would physically hurt him, but that he would say or do something that would shatter his already too fragile heart. The Witcher had done so before, after all, every time he left for Yennefer, and every time, Jaskier felt like another part of him shriveled and died.

His voice was small when he spoke. “I want this to mean you love me too,” he said quietly.

Geralt watched him for a long moment, and Jaskier waited for him to turn away, to get up and leave, to tell him that no, there was absolutely no way this could mean anything to him, but then his expression softened. “Of course I do,” he murmured, and he bent down to press his lips against Jaskier’s. It was chaste, quiet, and honest, and Jaskier felt his heart bloom.

“Idiot,” Geralt added against his lips, and Jaskier laughed.

“Thought you were going to break my heart for a moment there,” Jaskier huffed, and he couldn’t stop smiling, and he still couldn’t quite believe that this wasn’t a dream. Geralt _loved_ him. _Geralt_ loved him! He’d spent ages pining after the Witcher but the man had loved him the whole time.

“Would never hurt you,” Geralt murmured, and there was a tenderness in his voice that had never been there before.

“You did punch me once,” Jaskier pointed out.

Geralt nipped him, and Jaskier yelped, felt the sting shoot down to his groin. “That was because you were being an annoying little shit. And you called me the Butcher of Blaviken.”

“And you just bit me,” Jaskier said, grinning.

Geralt growled; there was a firmness in his touch, but it wasn’t harsh. “What, did you not like it?”

“Didn’t say that,” Jaskier said quickly, still grinning, a little bit breathless now.

Geralt growled again, and his lips left Jaskier’s to mouth at his chest, to kiss down his belly, and Jaskier gasped, arching up under his touch, letting out a moan that sounded _embarrassingly_ eager, even to his ears, as calloused fingers tugged at the waist of his trousers.

“Not shy about being naked now, are you?” Geralt observed, pulling Jaskier’s trousers down and tossing them somewhere to the side where they landed with a muffled thump.

“I didn’t know,” Jaskier protested, squirming as Geralt’s mouth stayed on his lower stomach, tantalizingly close to the throbbing heat between his legs but teasingly avoiding it. “I didn’t know you actually _liked_ me, Geralt—well, I mean, I figured you liked me if you let me stick around and looked after me in your stubborn grouchy way, but I didn’t know you _like-_ liked me, you know? And you’ve got all these beautiful muscles and razor-sharp jawline and that delicious _pout_ , and I had no way of knowing that you _wanted_ me—”

“I’ll show you I want you,” Geralt growled, and then _yes, finally_ , his mouth was wrapped around Jaskier’s cock, and it was _heavenly_ , and he cried out, hands fisting in the sheets, head thrown back in bliss.

Distantly, he wondered if Geralt had sucked cock before, because Jaskier considered himself rather experienced and gifted at cock-sucking and he’d met others who had been well-versed in pleasure but this was _wonderful_. The Witcher’s mouth was hot, so hot, his lips firm but soft around him, his tongue doing things that Jaskier had never imagined were possible and it took everything he had to keep his hips still, to stop himself from fucking into that beautiful mouth.

“Wait, Geralt, did you— _fuck, Geralt, do that again_ —did you tell me to bathe with you because you wanted—ahh, Gods, _please_ —because you wanted to see me naked?” Jaskier gasped out. “Because tha-that’s a real power play there, real sn-sneaky of you— _oh, Gods—_ ”

Geralt hummed around him, and Jaskier’s vision nearly whited out.

“I love you, Geralt,” Jaskier said breathlessly, his thighs shaking, staring hard at the ceiling because if he looked down to see Geralt with his lips around his cock he thought he might come right then and there and that would be absolutely mortifying.

Geralt seemed be having the same thought. He released Jaskier, came back up to kiss him, and his skin was hot against the bard’s.

“Let-let me,” Jaskier managed, hands reaching down between Geralt’s thighs to where he was hard and hot, tenting his trousers. Geralt shuddered as Jaskier touched him, his breath catching in his throat and the next love-bite a little harder.

“Next time,” he said roughly against Jaskier’s lips.

“Why?” Jaskier demanded, relishing in the stutter in the Witcher’s breath as he dragged his hand along his impressive length. “I want to taste you, Geralt, I want to have you in my mouth and feel the weight of you on my tongue. Been dreaming about this for _ages_ , you can’t suck me off and then deny me orgasm _and_ the chance to blow you—”

“Jaskier, Jaskier…just relax,” Geralt huffed. “You talk too much.”

Jaskier whined, hand still on Geralt’s length through his trousers. “I _want_ you, Geralt—”

“Hush, love,” Geralt murmured, his hand leaving Jaskier’s cheek to catch Jaskier’s wrist, pushing him gently away.

Jaskier let out a noise of frustration but let himself be pushed—not that he would have had much chance trying to resist, if Geralt were set on his decision. He slipped his hands up to Geralt’s sides instead, feeling the hot, soft skin, the way muscles shifted under it; and this was fine too, this was _delightful_ , maybe he wouldn’t be allowed to get Geralt off but touching his beautifully muscular chest and abs and shoulders was no downgrade—

Geralt hummed, pressed his hips down against Jaskier’s. “Can I fuck you?” he asked softly, tenderly, his voice barely more than a murmur. “Would that be a suitable alternative?”

Oh. _Oh_. Jaskier shivered. “Yes,” he whispered. “ _Gods_ , yes, Geralt.”

The Witcher was still kissing him; he kissed him for another few moments, tender and hungry and yearning, only tearing himself away when Jaskier let out an impatient huff and bucked his hips up against the other man’s body. He was _very_ glad that Geralt had chosen to sleep with just trousers, because that meant there was less to take off, and that meant Geralt could fuck him sooner, and that was a very good thing.

Geralt was gone for just long enough to take off his trousers and retrieve a small bottle of oil, which he used to slick up his fingers. He pressed in between Jaskier’s thighs, fingers rubbing delightfully and teasingly at his entrance, before pushing in gently.

Jaskier’s breath hitched sharply in his throat. He hadn’t been fucked in a while, and the sensation of having a finger shoved up his ass was strange but…not unpleasant, actually. And then Geralt crooked the finger and rubbed it inside him and the sensation suddenly became _very extremely tremendously_ pleasant and he couldn’t hold back a cry, hips jerking, hands tightening.

“Easy there, Jaskier,” Geralt murmured, and he pressed kisses to the insides of Jaskier’s shaking thighs, breath hot and lips soft and mouth wet, and Jaskier _ached_.

Geralt added a second finger when he was ready, which was a little uncomfortable, and then a third finger, which hurt. Jaskier gasped when Geralt eased it in, body going rigid, teeth clenched, but he knew Geralt was being as gentle as he could and loved him for it.

The Witcher waited for tense muscles to relax before he began moving again, scissoring his fingers, stretching him out, crooking them inside him and brushing against that bundle of nerves to send pleasure shooting up to Jaskier’s brain. It whited out the pain, made him want, pushed him ever closer towards a rapidly approaching orgasm, and he knew he should have more preparation but he needed Geralt, had to feel him—

“Get in me, Geralt,” he gasped.

“Are you sure? Jaskier, I don’t want to hurt you—”

“My _balls_ are aching with waiting for you,” Jaskier said. “So just fuck me already, _please_ —”

Geralt huffed a laugh. He withdrew his fingers, chuckled again at Jaskier’s gasp, positioned himself against Jaskier’s entrance.

“Deep breath,” he murmured, and pushed in.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jaskier bit out, toes curling and hands fisting, muscles rigid with the stretch. He clenched involuntarily and saw Geralt shudder; the other man leaned down to kiss him, breath shaky, lips tender.

“Tell me when,” Geralt murmured, and Jaskier swallowed, hesitated, nodded.

When Geralt moved, it was beyond divine. A smooth, fluid motion, muscles coiled like a whip and driving him into Jaskier’s body, and Jaskier cried out, hands flying to Geralt’s shoulders. The pace was slow but steady, agonizingly sweet, and Jaskier burned with pleasure.

“I love you, Geralt,” he said breathlessly, and Geralt shuddered. 

“Tell me how you want it,” he said, his voice rough and low in his throat.

”Faster,” Jaskier said. “Want you to fuck me hard, Geralt—”

Geralt growled, bit down lightly on Jaskier’s throat, and Jaskier could feel the sharp pricks of his canines, the hotness of his breath, and he gasped, arching off the bed as Geralt’s hands mapped their way around his body, caressed him, worshipped him.

Jaskier’s thighs were shaking now, his ankles locked around the small of Geralt’s back, and then Geralt fucked him faster like he’d asked, his cock pushing past that bundle of nerves with every stroke and Jaskier’s fingers dug into Geralt’s shoulders as he shuddered and gasped because he couldn’t _take_ it—

“Geralt,” he gasped, almost desperate, and Geralt looked wrecked.

“I love you,” the Witcher said, his voice shaking and his lips burning against Jaskier’s skin, and Jaskier came with a high keening, his orgasm shuddering through him and the torrent of pleasure numbing everything else in its wake. Geralt drove into him again once, twice, three times, and then came with a hoarse cry, Jaskier’s name a rasp on his lips.

Geralt collapsed half-on top of him afterwards, breathing hard and fast, heart pounding. “Fuck,” he said, with enormous feeling.

“Fuck, indeed,” Jaskier agreed breathlessly.

Geralt huffed a laugh. They lay there tangled together for a few moments, breathing hard and just a bit out of sync, and then when they’d recovered a bit, Geralt pushed himself reluctantly off Jaskier’s body with a soft groan. He pulled out gently and stood just long enough to retrieve a towel for Jaskier to wipe himself off, and then he flopped down on the bed beside the bard again, who immediately moved to tuck himself in the Witcher’s arms.

“What are we doing about that long ride tomorrow?” Jaskier asked as Geralt pulled the covers over them, movements languid and smooth; catlike. “I think we’re, um, getting a bit less sleep than we’d originally planned.”

“Ah,” Geralt said. He paused. “We can stop on the way if we need to.”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow at the uncharacteristic comment but didn’t mention it. “You ever fucked a man before?” he asked instead, a bit of a sly smile on his face. “Or was I your first? You seemed to know what you were doing, so…”

“A few times,” Geralt said. “Many years ago, before you, before Yennefer.”

Jaskier tilted his head up to look at him. “Right, so what’s the deal with Yennefer?”

Geralt shrugged once. “She left on that mountain. We haven’t spoken since unless it’s about Ciri. But I have you now anyway, so it doesn’t matter.”

Jaskier frowned. “I’m not just a…a rebound or anything, right?” he asked quietly, his fingers tightening in sudden fear because Yennefer was powerful and sexy and terrifying and he was just a bard but he didn’t think he could stand it if he was just temporary, if Geralt would leave him as soon as Yennefer came back. “You…you really do love me for me, right?”

Geralt exhaled sharply. “Of course, Jaskier,” he murmured, and his arms tightened around him as he pressed a kiss into Jaskier’s hair. Then he spoke again, and there was a gruff lightness to his voice. “I’m letting myself smell like you, aren’t I? You and your stupid flowery soap.”

“Oh,” Jaskier said, and then he let a cautious smile tug at his lips. “I suppose that’s true, yes.” He swallowed. “So if Yennefer came back, you wouldn’t…you’d stay with me, right?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, almost as a sigh, “I wouldn’t have fucked you if I hadn’t meant it.”

“Oh.” Jaskier reddened, suddenly thinking about the multitudes of affairs he’d had with people he hadn’t really, truly been in love with. “Well just so you know, it wasn’t like I _wanted_ to break their hearts every time I slept with someone and left them after, I genuinely did care for them and I never meant to hurt anyone. I just didn’t care for them as much as I care for _you_ , but since you never said anything I figured I might as well try and find someone else, only none of them were right, so I had to leave because otherwise it wouldn’t have been fair to anyone.” 

“That’s not what I...I wasn’t trying to imply you were doing anything wrong,” Geralt said. “I just mean that I...I do love you, Jaskier. I want you to know that and to trust that. I want you to believe me.”

Jaskier swallowed. “I believe you,” he said quietly. He looked up at Geralt again. “But why _didn’t_ you ever say anything? I thought I was being obvious, bouncing around you all the time, wanting to please you, wanting everything to do with you. And you never said a word.”

Geralt was silent for a long time, his eyes a bright flicker of gold in the darkness. “I didn’t want to hurt you,” he said finally, quietly. “You’re human, Jaskier. I’m a Witcher. I was made to kill, and when I break things, they get broken beyond repair. I didn’t want that to happen to you.” His eyes shifted down to Jaskier’s, gold holding blue. “But then, today, you said you knew I wouldn’t hurt you. You were trusting in a way that no one has ever been. So I thought that maybe…maybe it would be okay.” There was something raw in his voice now. “Please don’t ever prove me wrong, Jaskier. It would break me to lose you.”

Jaskier’s breath hitched in his throat. “I think that’s the most you’ve ever spoken at once, Geralt,” he whispered, when he could speak again.

Geralt just kissed him. And Jaskier—

Jaskier drifted to sleep in the arms of his Witcher, and he’d never felt safer.

**Author's Note:**

> Geralt is angsty and brooding and grumpy and angsty but Jaskier is just completely lawless and chaotic so wow this was fun to write. Might go back and fix some of the pacing in the future but I will be swamped with work for the foreseeable future so I kind of had to rush to finish this. Hope y’all enjoyed anyway!


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